


aire soy

by bericdondarrion



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: AO2020, Blow Jobs, M/M, Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22767994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bericdondarrion/pseuds/bericdondarrion
Summary: Angry Rafa wouldn’t take weeks to get out of this state, he just needed something to blame, the court, the weather, the atp cup, Carlos…He just needed to let it out.
Relationships: Carlos Moya/Rafael Nadal
Kudos: 6





	aire soy

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be angsty and healing but turned up porny. Oh well.

It wasn’t that bad of a loss, really. There have been much worse, more tragic ones, this was… fine. The score was close, he saw Rafa trying and trying hard. His player never really gave up and even though his game was, sincerely speaking, trash, he tried to find options around his opponent. Loss and all, the result was overall… not that bad, compared to others, so really there was no good reason to be feeling this sad and hopeless, especially not him, he was the walking piece of eternal optimism in Rafa’s life, seeing the positive in everything as hard as it was sometimes, he was the constant smiles, the light kisses on the lips to try to erase Rafa’s frowning face. 

So when he wanted to run out of the arena before the fourth set was over, he had to reevaluate his state of mind. 

Maybe it was just everything, he didn’t take much time to think about what he had gone through last year. He had analyzed and thought about Rafa a thousand times, he had given rather philosophical answers to reporters and talked about it with the team more times that he should have, perhaps, until it all became a nostalgic “the moral of this story is…” anecdote. 

But he never sat down to think of his own frustrations and doubts and fears and what if he was the problem?. He had made a mess of his own professional career, what if he was making a mess out of none other than the most important person in his life too? Maybe, that was a real reason for concern, maybe he wasn’t that good, honestly, it was all Rafa, Rafa made things happen but Rafa was always trusting him and believing in his advice and loving him too much to question him, and maybe he was messing everything up, as usual.

So he sat there miserably, trying to pretend to be paying attention to a match that he already knew was lost and that was another thing by the way, he never believed a match was lost when Rafa was the one playing. Rafa could turn anything around. So why was he absolutely convinced that this one was already lost? He just had to win this tiebreak… But he sighed and looked away and he knew Costa was going to scold him later on.  _ You are supposed to reassure him not the other way around.  _

Less than 15 minutes later and he was proved correct in his assumptions, so he jumped out of his seat and mumbled something about setting the cool off equipment up before the others had time to react and practically ran out of there because he could feel the lump in his throat and the minute he stepped outside the stadium, he just let the tears flow.

Stress crying, he thought, bawling to be precise. It was surely the accumulation of everything that happened last year. Never addressing his fears, the stress and then release the came with and after New York. Bercy, that damn Bercy and the shades of Montecarlo that threatened London and made it hard for him to come up with the next day’s practice plan, and then just having to deal with the mess that weird new atp cup thing left of Rafa.

Yeah, under those circumstances maybe it made sense to be a crying mess, but he knew he had to get it together before meeting Rafa in his locker room because, after all, he had to be there for Rafa, that was his role, his purpose, to be there in any way that Rafa needed him to. 

He tried to think of stuff to say,  _ you did well, that was very close, all these conditions made it very hard and you still found a way, let’s just work on the issues _ . But nothing sounded right and yes, he would lie to Rafa constantly, “that was great…”, “you did amazing we just need to work on the issues...”, “yes it's mostly the balls, not you…”, “yes, go to Dubai, I’ll be fine, I have stuff to do back home anyway”, but there was always some layer in which he believed them himself, like a subconscious way to manipulate his heart. He wondered if maybe he would have made a better actor than tennis player. 

Not this time though, and he realized that he was just a tad more tired and a little too sad, which was new, this was a first in four years and it terrified him. What if he couldn’t be there for Rafa? He wasn’t supposed to need help, that wasn’t how it worked between them. It was always Carlos comforting Rafa, taking care of Rafa, running to Rafa, waiting for him, kissing him where it hurt and doing anything Rafa asked him to do to his body and heart.

When his phone vibrated and he looked at the “locker room” text, he knew Rafa was mad. 

Rafa had different moods after losing a match and different ways to deal with them. He could get very depressed and that’s when Carlos needed his acting skills the most. He had a pretty good grip on what Rafa needed to hear: he’d say reassuring things, caress his face, give him a kiss or two and then he would give him some space and time with his family. Then they would meet later on and they would have sex, slowly and tenderly, because Rafa needed to feel safe again and Carlos would find a new way to express the same reassuring words.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes he had to repeat the same routine day after day until the results in practice started showing and they were back on business. That was usually the scenario.

Other times he just wanted to be left alone and Carlos had a hard time accepting that but he did nonetheless, “just let me know when you need me”, he’d say, kiss his forehead and walk away. 

Then Rafa would run back to Mallorca on his own to spend some time on his boat, or sometimes he’d fly to some other places with people Carlos would rather not think of, and then he’d come back a week later, show up at Carlos’ door, jump into his arms smiling and expressing how badly he wanted to go back to practice the next morning but first, he had just learnt something new and he wanted them to try it and that was it.

That was the easiest, he supposed, as long as he didn’t dwell in the details. 

He failed to find tissues inside his pockets so he ran a little bit faster to Rafa’s private room to try to fix himself up. In all occasions during the last four years, he’d never cried, not like this, especially not in front of the team and not after Rafa had just played, so he wasn’t sure how that would affect the method, particularly when  **_mad_ ** was the scenario.

When he reached the room, Rafa was already there taking his damp shirt off and Carlos wondered just how much time he wasted thinking. He was out of breath and still trying to compose himself, using his sleeves to clean his face up, noticing the look Rafa gave him, worried, just for a split second, before looking away. 

Carlos locked the door behind him and then leaned back against it. 

“Why are you crying?” Rafa mumbled rather reluctantly, like he didn’t really want to talk right now.

“Nothing”, he whispered.

“You looked miserable back there”, he continued taking his shorts off, as wet as the rest of his clothes. Carlos didn’t answer so Rafa continued, “You weren’t even looking at the match properly, was I that bad?”.

Alright, he could deal with this Rafa, if only he could find his own conviction. 

“You are never bad”, he said faintly, tried smiling somehow and then Rafa looked back at him in anger, his right fist slightly clenched and ah! angry Rafa was always a good sight, to be honest, he could deal with it rather quickly, before the rest of the team got there even. They had, perhaps, 10 minutes, because Tomeu knew to keep them entertained and that would be it.

Angry Rafa knew what his mistakes had been and why, he also knew how to correct them. Angry rafa didn’t turn up as a result of injuries and major pain (there was always some level of pain) so without Maymo’s diagnosis, Carlos knew that there wasn’t something terribly wrong. Angry Rafa wouldn’t take weeks to get out of this state, he just needed something to blame, the court, the weather, the atp cup, Carlos…

He just needed to let it out. 

No, he was never violent, so Carlos didn’t flinch when Rafa closed the space between them and trapped him between the door and his own body, hands next to either side of Carlos’ head, heavy breathing, eyes darting around, like trying to recall everything that happened in the last 3 hours because honestly, how can someone win so much in this place and yet always lose. 

Carlos reached up and cupped Rafa’s face in his hands. No matter how big Rafa tried to make himself appear, how angry he got and intimidating he attempted to be, Carlos was always in control somehow. Apparently. 

Carlos kissed him softly, lightly sweeping his tongue between his lips, and puffed into his mouth, trying to bring their breathing to a more stable tempo, their heartbeats to stop pounding so hard. He slid his hands down his body and stopped at the small of his back. Rafa was still sweating a bit too much but so was Carlos anyway.

This was when he’d say  _ It’s ok, we’ll try again next year, you did good, we’ll keep working _ , but instead he said, quite sincerely for once, “I’m sorry, I should’ve come up with something better”, and Rafa tilted his head to the side, almost comically. 

He lowered his arms, taking a step back and Carlos let out a sigh. 

But then Rafa frowned back and almost growled a quiet, “Yes, maybe you should have”. In another moment, Carlos would be perfectly aware that Rafa hadn’t meant it, that he actually intended it at himself and that Carlos would need to talk him out of his own self deprecation. 

**Mad** meant taking it out on Carlos but he knew it wasn’t really on him. This time however, the stress and the need to cry made him question it all. 

He dropped his gaze and tried to find a reply but then Rafa’s mouth was on his own and for the first time since they started doing this, Rafa had control.

That wasn’t the idea nor the plan, Rafa had to be taken care of. Behind closed doors, there with Carlos, Rafa could just lose himself in his arms and not have to be The Rafael Nadal everyone expected him to be outside. Brave and strong and in charge. That was Carlos’ role, and his only hope was for Rafa to have at least one safe space in this world, there in his arms.

He tried to bring his hands around Rafa’s neck, despite still feeling hurt from the other’s words (he could deal with this emotional instability later, Rafa came first), then hold his head between them, darting his tongue out to try to crack Rafa’s lips open but the other beat him to it and he soon felt his mouth invaded and not quite delicately. Rafa stroked his tongue inside Carlos’ mouth, deep, hungrily, roaming free like he was used to this even though they really didn’t play like this, “Rafa”, he groaned into his mouth, indeed they rarely did this and he had forgotten how good it felt, Rafa was sucking on his tongue and no matter how badly he tried to take the control back, the other kept pushing back, chest to chest and Carlos gave up, he let his arms rest in Rafa’s naked shoulders and gave into the kiss.

Maybe this was another possible method. Maybe it was a retro inspection of what he was unable to do in the court and that was fine too, Carlos could be his way to feel in control again, he’d do anything to make Rafa feel safe again.

Another moan from the older man to get out of his head as Rafa bit into his lower lip a bit too harsh, then felt Rafa’s tongue leave his mouth to trace over the strain of blood, giving them a second to catch their breaths without putting any distance between their bodies. 

Rafa rested his forehead against Carlos’ and closed his eyes. Carlos saw and felt Rafa’s chest moving up and down as he tried to cool off, whatever anger he had, attempting to leave his body, as if the taste of Carlos’ blood had brought him down from that high. Carlos waited patiently, running his fingers down Rafa’s naked spine, nudging the curve of his back. He could feel the younger man’s erection pressing against his thigh and wondered if Rafa was conscious of Carlos’ own arousal considering just how naked Rafa was, and whatever were they supposed to do about it when they had about five minutes left. 

“If I’m here it’s thanks to you”, he heard the whisper out of the blue and it brought the lump back into his throat, “I should’ve paid more attention”, Rafa continued, “I’m always so selfish, I want you all for myself and never give you anything in return”.

Carlos sighed and tried to relax, to visualize where it all went so gloomy inside his head, and came up with nothing in particular, “Yeah”, he admitted, “I'm not okay”.

Rafa exhaled and rested his head on Carlos’ shoulder. Carlos kissed his ear softly, “You’ll have a week off to rest”, his player offered and Carlos grimaced. That didn’t make him feel any better, thinking of what Rafa would be doing without him, “And then we always have Mexico”, Carlos kissed his shoulder, “yeah”, he whispered, “we’ll figure it out”. Rafa was back in his arms, both literally and figuratively, back to needing Carlos to take care of him. 

They stayed like that for another gratifying minute, away from the reality behind that door that awaited them, to deal with a quarterfinal loss and what that meant, which when it came to Rafa, it was equal to a first round loss anyway. 

“I should suck you off now”, Rafa breathed into his ear and Carlos chuckled, “Only if you want your dad to walk in on us mid sucking”. He considered his options and gently pushed Rafa off, making him take a few steps back, enough to give him some space, “You are the one who needs to go in front of a bunch of reporters in five minutes anyway, as much as I like to hear you beg, I’ll just…”, he tugged Rafa’s boxers down in the same motion as he dropped to his knees in front of him, “...ask Tomeu for help”, he smirked and looked up in time to see Rafa rolling his eyes. 

Right. Four minutes or so. He didn’t waste any more time to take care of Rafa’s “inconvenience”, he curled his fingers around the base, opened his mouth and took the cock as far back as his throat would allow before pulling forward until only the tip remained. He repeated his motion again and again, sucking harder every time. 

Rafa was back to breathing hard, but this time it was a welcomed sound. He felt fingers from one hand tugging on his hair and from the other reaching down to caress his cheek, Rafa feeling his own bulge underneath Carlos’ skin. 

He continued this motion until he heard voices behind the door. Without stopping, going slightly faster than before, he reached behind Rafa and spread him lightly, teasing with one finger before slipping in easily. He didn’t have to look up to picture Rafa covering his mouth to stop the sounds he was making from going through the door. He continued both movements, head and digit until he felt the muscles squeeze around his finger and with a final moan of pleasure, and Carlos making sure he had the entirety of Rafa’s length inside his mouth, the other climaxed. 

Carlos covered his mouth and swallowed, they didn’t have time to clean up and he swore that, as expected, he could hear Sebastian. He stood up, took his RNA jacket off and wrapped it around his waist, then quickly went to find a white shirt for Rafa to wear and whatever clean shorts he could find and threw them back at one - still trying to catch his breath - Rafael Nadal. 

“Get it together”, Carlos urged, helping him put on his clothes.

A knock on the door, “Rafa? You are already late for the press” - Carlos facepalmed remembering that Rafa didn’t even take a shower and he still looked like he had just finished playing the match. He sighed in resignation and walked towards a corner, silently lamenting all his choices as Rafa tried to fix his hair while opening the door.

“Yes, dad, I know, I’m coming, they aren’t going anywhere, I bet they are dying to ask me how long until I retire and how sad am I to miss on twenty something or another bullshit”, he faked some indignation.

Sebastian frowned, “You didn’t shower?”, Rafa hurriedly walked past him and out of the room, feeling slightly guilty about leaving Carlos in his own state to try to come up with something. Surely however, he made sure to glare at Tomeu when he walked past him and snarled “You better make it quick”. 


End file.
